Any day a cat or a library or something incendiary. Everyday like a leaf losing chlorophyll for the moment of winter. Everyday as ribbons of clouds settle vast questions under the possible theory of sky. Everyday like warm rain on the exact moment of finally. The earth accepts words tho not made of them. People accept earth tho not made of it. Stars plink tiny lutes just for the sake of metaphors and trees. Nothing settles anything. Winter has a reply, rain is a consequence of no rain. Time feeds the place where we said something else. We can say something again, rose and rise.